


The Thin Line

by argle_fraster



Category: Gundam Wing
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-19
Updated: 2011-10-19
Packaged: 2017-10-24 19:00:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/266784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/argle_fraster/pseuds/argle_fraster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's a thin line between love and hate; none of them quite know what they are seeking.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Thin Line

There's a fine line between love and hate.

I've seen what war can do to the world–I've been there. I've seen the struggling and the pain and the desperate need to find a way to fix things. Sometimes the fixes work, and sometimes they don't. Sometimes they are the rabid, fever-wraught fixations of war veterans, and sometimes they are the naive hope of the young and unscarred. Sometimes it matters; others it doesn't.

But every time, the thin line blurs further, and I can't find the edges. I always prided myself on finding the edges, on being able to feel them out. And now, every time I try to shake my thoughts clear, it blurs again.

Sometimes I wonder if the line is even there at all.

\-------

The door creaks open while I stand in front of it with the key outstretched. After years of security lingering in shadows and bodyguards escorting me through crowds, it should frighten me–it never does. Perhaps it's because I don't fear death anymore. Or perhaps it's because I know who has opened the lock before me.

He's standing at the sink peeling potatoes, and doesn't look up when I set down my bag of groceries.

"If you'd told me that you were coming, I could have picked up some more chicken," I explain, pulling out a few freezer boxes and a small carton of juice. Easy provisions–that's all it is these days. Whatever is easy. Convenient. When did my life become about convenience?

"I was in the area," he monotones back at me. The peelings fall into the sink and stick to the sides, sliding down to the low basin. "Thought I would stop by."

That's what he says every time. I stopped asking for clarification long ago. I hand him one of the boxes–Chicken in Minutes! it says on the side–and he takes it without meeting my gaze. Our fingers brush, and he appears not to notice.

I always do.

"What have you been up to lately?" I ask.

"The usual." Again, the same response every time. It used to bother me that I actually didn't know what he did for a living. Last I heard from Duo, it was something in the federal sector–something inside. Above legislation, I'm sure, but as to specifics, I haven't the foggiest. I assume it's dangerous; it's always dangerous, with him.

That should bother me, too, but I think I've finally accepted it as Heero. You take him or you leave him; he comes as he is, with nothing more.

"White or red?" I ask, holding up two bottles on the far side of the kitchen. He looks up once, gaze flickering over the labels.

"White."

I put the bottle of red back in the rack.

"Quatre is doing well for himself," I say, as I struggle with the cork–it's broken in half. "I saw on the news last week that Winner Enterprises has just bought out another competitor. He's building an empire with his bare hands."

Heero comes over and puts his hands over mine to take over de-corking the bottle. It's a gesture that should reek of intimacy, and feels barren. He doesn't ask my permission; he never does. He gets the cork out with practiced ease and no expression.

"Hn."

When he puts the bottle back down on the counter, one hand trails up my arm to my sleeve. His fingers are deft and gentle, like butterfly kisses against my skin. I close my eyes, because it's easier to imagine that way–the fluttering kiss against my cheek is warm.

"I suspect you want me to clear my schedule for the night," I breathe, as his hand moves to the back of my neck, brushing aside the hair held back with a tortoiseshell clip. He doesn't respond verbally, and if he nods, I don't see it. But his body is hot and demanding against mine. The rush of emotion is always the same, the pounding in my chest that echoes the throbbing against my ears. His mouth is on the back of my neck, his hands already slinking up beneath my skirt.

It's easy to bend over the countertop and match his rhythms. How he does this to me–I try not to think about it as the edge of the marble hits awkwardly against my ribs, just under my bra. I'll bruise tomorrow, but it's the last thing on my mind. I have the presence to move the wine bottle to avoid knocking it over in our haste, and when the pressure builds, I fix my gaze on it. Heero is silent, as always; his ragged breathing the only affirmation I get from him. The words on the wine label blur as my body hitches and releases. I can feel his muscles tense as he follows.

When he pulls away, I adjust my skirt. The skin on my abdomen is tender.

"How long?" he asks, holding up the chicken freezer box.

"Seven minutes should do it," I say, pulling out two wine glasses. He doesn't meet my gaze.

\-------

Defense is easy in peacetime–so they say. Defense is easy in practice when the wars are over, and the walls between enemies are clearly drawn. Defending a nation during peacetime is relatively simple; defending yourself, however, is not. But it's easy to get lost in the monotony of it all. Easy to lose yourself in the day-to-day, the ordinary, the mundane. That's the real enemy of peace; routine. Normalcy.

The rhythmic prick of my holster against my thigh is what keeps my mind sharp while moving around the colony. It's something, at least, to anchor me to what I'm doing. There is little else.

It's hard to surprise our department, but he manages to do it every time. I let the latch click shut behind me, eyebrows raised–as usual, his face is impassive and neutral. It's hard to gauge what he's thinking. I think they say the same about me.

"Busy day?" he asks, drumming his fingers against the metal of the interrogation table.

"No more than usual." I drop down the folder I'm holding. He couldn't be less interested in the documents inside, and it's somehow reassuring. His gaze flickers over the gun against my side through the opening in my blazer when I sit; green eyes impassive, but observant. Keen. Always have been.

It's somewhat reassuring to have things that don't change, even in peacetime. Even when you find yourself drowning in a sea of mediocrity, there's something that stays constant.

"I ran into an associate of yours out on A3," he says. "He told me you were doing well here. It's good to hear."

I don't think he expects a response, so I don't say anything. There's a comfortable silence in the room. The walls are close–it's built to be intimidating, not accommodating–but the atmosphere is calm. We're used to being inside confined areas. Sometimes I think it's the only place we feel truly at home.

Sometimes my hands still itch for suit controls.

"How is Catherine?" I ask.

"Good," he says, nodding. There's a ghost of a smile on his lips. "She sends her thoughts."

She doesn't, of course, and both of us know it.

"Are you going to the memorial?" he inquires. I shake my head. I'd thought about it, but in all honesty, memorials and monuments and peace were better left in the hands of those who flourished in them. Peace was hard enough for me to survive in without the constant reminders of what made me this way. I figured Trowa felt the same–he usually does.

"I think Wufei is going," he continues, his gaze fixated on one of the room's corners. "I expect we'll all get an earful for failing to show up. He stands so hard on traditions."

"It's all he has," I say. I take my blazer off and set it over the back of the chair, and continue with my holster. The gun is on safety, but I still like to be careful. After all the years of handling firearms–well, I've seen what mishandling them can cause. He watches me with his blank expression as I set the gun under my chair carefully. There's something in his eyes that I can't read; I've never been good with reading people. Sometimes I wish Quatre were there to translate for me.

"How have you been?" he asks. His voice is much lower this time. He stands up, taking my cue. Again, I don't think he expects an answer–meeting him in the middle is easier, mouths tangling. He tastes like salt and mint gum, like the past and mobile suits and months spent hiding underground in seedy motels.

The metal table is cold against bare skin, a shock; I gasp against his mouth. His hands are everywhere, leaving trails of stinging heat behind them when they move. His rhythms are easy to match, easy to rise to–and the table shakes with every pound, every groan. I let my hands go to his shoulders, pushing aside his collar–his muscle tension is the easiest way to read him.

"Heero," he breathes, body shuddering. Sometimes he does that, whispers, like a faint sigh–it's easy to follow him over the edge when he does that. It's an overwhelming and vision-blurring explosion that leaves us sticky and struggling to right our breathing. Makes me glad the rooms can lock from the inside as well as the outside.

"Maybe we should go to the memorial," he says, frowning, as he struggles to button his shirt sleeves again. "Do you think it's important?"

"They usually are," I tell him. I grab my gun from beneath the chair and re-position it on my hip. It's weight is solid and grounding.

"I know," he sighs. "I just wonder if ignoring them helps."

It doesn't help me block the memories that keep me up at night, the screams and explosions and deaths by my hand. His gaze meets mine, and I know; it's the same for all of us. He shrugs slightly, and I shake my head.

"Yeah," he says. "Me too."

Another sigh.

\-------

I've never been one for psychoanalysis, but sometimes, in the back of my mind, I think I stick around the circus because of the colors. My world tends to revolve around shades of gray–black, white, and in-between. That's war for you, inside and out; it's all gray, all smoke and sulphur and machinery coils. The bright big top is a splash of color against the charcoal, and I think I stay for that. I don't think about it very often, but sometimes, after a show, or after another documentary on the news, I wonder.

It's hot under the tent. They weren't built for airflow, and the cages we line the sides with don't help the problem. Catherine's face is usually bright with a sheen of sweat by the time the show ends. It tends to make her look younger, which I think adds to overall awe of her knife-throwing act.

Stepping outside again is like a breath of fresh air compared to the sweltering tent, even when I see a figure seated on the steps of my trailer. Her legs are crossed, hands in her lap–professional, even while sitting among a rickety old mobile home on the edge of town. She smiles up at me when I approach.

"I saw the show," she says, standing to meet me. "I think Catherine's aim is getting even better, if that's possible."

"She doesn't nick me as much," I reply. I open the door and hold it open for her; she gives me another soft smile and walks inside. There isn't much there; years of living with nothing have instilled a certain mindset, I guess. It's small, but that's how I like it. Big places tend to bother me. They're harder to watch.

The war is a hard thing to forget, even now.

"You didn't come to the memorial," she says, without further preamble. I expect nothing less from her; it's almost nice, the bluntness. People tend to be cautious and nervous around us.

"No." I don't give her an excuse; there isn't one, really.

She wraps her arms around herself and fixes her gaze somewhere on the ground, on the cheap linoleum tiling that lines the makeshift kitchen.

"The invitations are always extended to all of you," she continues, voice wistful. "If you don't want to get them anymore, you can just tell me. I won't be offended."

She knows the problem is not with her; I think that's why her words don't bother me. It's just old war talk still–the same things over and over again. Another memorial, another monument; another commemoration by people who didn't fight in it. She's obligated to go as a public figure.

I don't think anyone actually expects us to go anymore. I fix her a cup of tea, and she takes it with soft thanks.

"Things are never the same," she whispers.

I don't think either of us want them to be.

"Duo says hello," she tells me, after a pause. "I met him over on 10D during delegations–he's doing well."

She sets down the cup on the small end table. Her nails are perfectly manicured. She looks down at her palms for a short while before rising from her seat to cross the room and sit next to me, curling up against my side. Her body is warm and welcome, and the arm she puts around my waist is gentle.

"Sometimes I'm afraid," she whispers.

"Sometimes," I say. Her mouth is hot when it meets my ear; she knows the sensitive spots on my neck, and trails down my jaw line. It's comfortably warm in the trailer, which helps things immensely. She's light, still, especially compared to the crates I move around for the manager when he throws his back, and carrying her to the bedroom is a practiced ease. Her legs are already wrapped around my waist when we drop down to the sheets.

It's easy, being with her–a dance. Her blonde hair spreads around the pillow like a halo when she throws her head back and moans. She's warm and ready and moves against me with delicious sighs, skin slick with anticipation and need. Her fingers dig into my shoulders, and it isn't painful, though it will leave marks. She lets out a breathy little cry when she comes, and I gasp into the groove of her collarbone when I follow.

She falls asleep soon, sheets wrapped around her breasts. I watch the rise and fall of her chest, and stare out the window, and wonder what exactly we are seeking.


End file.
